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Chapter 1 An Unexpected Visitor

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It was Dr. Cameron’s wedding-day. At eight o’clock in the evening, the ceremony of marriage between himself and Genevieve Gretorex was to be performed at the house of the bride’s parents in St. Nicholas Place. It was now four o’clock.

Seated in his office, Dr. Cameron, who for a young man enjoyed a most enviable reputation as a physician, mused over his past and built castles for the future; for his bride was the daughter of one of the richest and most influential citizens of New York, and to such ambition as his, this fact, implying as it did valuable connections in the present, and a large and unencumbered fortune in the future, was one that lent lustre to her beauty and attraction to their union. Not but what he loved her—or thought he did—would have loved her under any circumstances. Was she not handsome, and in that reserved and somewhat haughty way he especially admired? Had she not fine manners, and would she not add increased honor to a name already well known, and as he might add, respected? To be sure she had her caprices, as a woman so circumstanced had a right to have, and she esteemed rather than adored him, as many little events in their short courtship only too plainly betrayed. But then he would not have admired a gushing bride, and being what he was, a man of taste and the son of a man of taste, he found a certain satisfaction in the calm propriety of a match that united equal interests, without jeopardizing that calmness of mind necessary to the successful practice of his exacting profession. There was but one thing troubled him. Why had she refused to see him for the last seven days? She was not a woman of petty instincts. Indeed he had sometimes suspected her of possessing latent energies which the round of a fashionable life had never called forth; and in her cool and somewhat languid gaze he had caught glimpses now and then of a spirit that only needed light and air to expand into something like greatness. Why then this strange desire for seclusion at a time when a woman is usually supposed to desire the support of her lover’s society? Had he displeased her? He could not think so. Not only had his presents been rich, they had been rare and of an order to gratify her refined taste. Was she ill? He was her physician as well as lover and he had not been notified of any indisposition. Besides the last time he had been so fortunate as to be received into her presence, she had seemed well, and looked blooming; more so indeed, than he had seen her for some time; and though somewhat nervous in manner, had exhibited an interest in his attentions which he had not always observed in her. It was not a long interview, but he remembered it well; saw again the almost timid look with which she greeted him, followed by the smile that was nearly a shock to him, it was so much warmer and brighter than usual. Then the few hurried words—for even that night she would not see him long—and the sudden coyness of her attitude as he took her hand in parting!—he recollected it all. He had not thought of it at the time, but now it seemed to him that there had been something strange in her whole bearing, an impalpable change from her former self that he could not analyze but which had nevertheless left its impression upon him. The kiss he had received, for instance, had moved him. There had been warmth in it and her lips had almost returned the pressure of his own.

This was new in the history of their courtship and would have argued, perhaps, that she was beginning to recognize his appreciation of her if her after conduct had not given the lie to any such surmise. As it was, it rather seemed to show that she had been in an unnatural condition—suggestive of incipient fever, perhaps, She was ill; and they were trying to keep it from him! The butler’s excuses, “Miss Gretorex is very much engaged, sir;” “Mrs. Gretorex’s regrets, sir, but Miss Gretorex has gone out on important business,” were but polite subterfuges to blind his eyes to the real truth. And yet to his calmer judgment how untenable was even this supposition. Had she been sick he could not have failed to have heard of it from some quarter. No, she was not sick. She was but indulging in a freak easily to be explained, perhaps, by her mother’s over-exacting code of etiquette; and as in a few hours she was to be his wife and life-long companion, he would cease to think of it, and only remember that kiss—

He had reached this point in his musings when they were suddenly interrupted. A tap was heard on his office door.

With some irritation he arose. It was not time for his carriage and he had expressly ordered that no visitors or patients were to be received. Who could it be, then? A messenger from Miss Gretorex? He sprang to the door at the thought. But before he could touch the knob, the door opened, and to his surprise and possible relief there entered an unknown man of middle age and prepossessing appearance, whose errand seemed to be one of importance though his manner was quiet and his voice startlingly gentle.

“I hope I am not intruding,” said he. “The boy below told me this was your wedding-day, but he also told me that the ceremony was not to take place till eight o’clock this evening, and as my business is peculiar and demands instant attention, I ventured to come up.”

“That is right,” answered Dr. Cameron, feeling an unaccountable attraction towards the man though he was not what you would perhaps call a gentleman, and had, as the doctor could not but notice even at this early stage of their acquaintance, a way of not meeting your eye when he spoke that was to say the least, lacking in ingenuousness. “Is it as a patient you come to me?”

“No,” rejoined the stranger, fixing his glance on the white necktie and one or two other insignificant articles which lay on the table near by, with an air strangely like that of compassion. “My business is with you as a doctor—that is, partly—but I am not the patient. I almost wish I were,” he added, in a troubled tone that awakened the other’s interest notwithstanding the natural pre-occupation of his thoughts.

“Let me hear,” returned Dr. Cameron.

“You make my task easy,” the stranger remarked. “And yet,” he went on in a curter and more business-like tone, “you may be less willing to listen when I tell you that I have first a story to relate which while not uninteresting in itself, is so out of accord with your present mood that I doubt if you will be able to sit through it with patience. Yet it is necessary for me to relate it and necessary for you to hear it, now, here, and without any interruption.”

This was alarming; especially as the speaker did not seem like a man given to sentimentalities or even to exaggeration. On the contrary he gave the impression of a person accustomed to weigh his words with studious care, not allowing a sentence to escape him without a decided motive.

“Will you tell me your name?” requested Dr. Cameron.

The reply came quietly.

“I doubt if you will know it, and I had rather you had not asked it. But since it is important above all things that you should trust me, I will say that it is Gryce, Ebenezar Gryce, and add that I am a member of the police force; in short, a detective.”

Dr. Cameron felt his apprehensions vanish. Whatever the other’s errand, it could not be one that touched him or his; and this to a man on his wedding-day was certainly a comforting thought.

“You undervalue your fame,” he replied. “I know your name well. Can it be possible you desire my assistance in a professional way?”

The detective’s gaze which had been resting gloomily upon a laughing cherub on the mantelpiece, shifted, but he did not respond to the doctor’s smile and his manner remained unaltered.

“I will tell my story,” said he. “It will be the quickest way to come to an understanding.”

And without further pause or preliminary, he began in the following words.